


Dog tired

by m_findlow



Category: Torchwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 03:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13425555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_findlow/pseuds/m_findlow
Summary: Someone's having a bad day, but who?





	Dog tired

Jack found the item returned to him, lying on his desk. Gingerly picking it up by the corner, he inspected it, just to make sure it really was the same one he'd had from earlier. It was hardly recognizable anymore, crumpled, sodden, dog-eared, with stains that couldn't be explained and chunks of it where the writing was gone, or torn out altogether. He could understand now why the borrower had not returned it in person, too horrified to fess up to the state of it.

Jack sighed. Detective Inspector Kathy Swanson was going to tear him a new one for this. The list of names and addresses had been part of evidence they'd collected in an ongoing case, which had somewhat crossed paths with their own. In hindsight, they probably should have taken a photocopy, but then again, he hadn't ever expected to find it in such a state.

He gently tried flattening it a little with his palm, watching as a brown goo leaked out between two pages, and stopping before he made it worse, simply slipping it back in its plastic sleeve, blocking out the odd smell. Time to go and face the culprit.

It didn't take long to find them. Everyone had their go to spot where they liked to hide out when things weren't going their way, and Jack knew them all.

Standing in the door way, he held up the plastic evidence bag.

'Bad day?'

There was no reply.

'So, before I go and go and commit suicide by Cardiff constabulary, would you like to tell me what happened?'

 

Seven am.

Standing in an often disused section of the hub, the large Harwood's van rolls up. It's an early start to the day, or perhaps it's just a late finish to yesterday, it's so hard to tell anymore. Grateful for Rhys helping them out again, there's a bag of pastries waiting for him once he's done. It's the least they can do as a thank you, since he doesn't get paid for any of this, and Rhys has a soft spot for apricot danish. It feels like ages since they last saw one another. 

It's a busy morning, and this is just one more thing to add to the list. There's a list of names and addresses from Jack which need to be analysed and tracked down, customers of someone who's been offloading dodgy alien tech, masking it as household items. Thankfully it's only a handful of pages, handed to them by Detective Swanson. It's carefully folded into four and slipped into a pocket for afterwards.

They're joined by a third member of the team, and between them, have the joyous task of loading the Gaspinxa into the van. It's a large furry, orange ball, with equally long furry limbs. At least they only have to get it as far as Newport and load it into a container. From there, it would head to a nature conservation in Iceland, where it could happily enjoy the icy waters without upsetting the locals.

Hosing it down isn't strictly necessary, but it enjoys the water, and anything that will help put it in a good mood for the trip, can only be a good thing. What they don't count on is it wanting to play. Long wet arms wrap around them, trying to cuddle them as they coax it into the van, leaving them all with large sodden patches on their clothes. There's no time to change. The cargo ship will be leaving at eight fifteen sharp, and they've already wasted enough time extracting themselves from the furry tentacles.

Ten am.

A brief but well deserved coffee back at the hub and now it's back on the road to start tracking down some of the names on the list. Pulling it out of the pocket reveals it's a little bit damp and crinkly from this morning, but there's nothing to be done for it. It could be a lot worse. There's no particular order on the list, so instead it gets an eye run over it, and with a pencil, they mark down a series of numbers. No sense in following the list order, better to lump the addresses together in similar locations.

The first house is less of a house and more of a dump. The front yard looks like a dog's breakfast, with rusted out cars, bags of garbage, piles of broken furniture and a raft of items that no longer resemble anything. If they'd acquired something alien which didn't work, it probably got dumped out here with everything else. Finding it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Pulling out the PDA, now seems like a good time to try out that new scanner program. It's designed to identify over a hundred different readings, and the whole team have leant their own expertise in its development, medical, technological, and historical. If there's something alien hidden in this pile of junk, the scanner should be able to identify it. It's just the kind of opportunity they've been waiting for.

Activating the scanner turns up nothing. Huh. Maybe it wasn't quite as polished a product as they'd thought. Oh well, at least now they knew to give it a bit more rigorous testing. Tiptoeing through the detritus takes agility, but it doesn't spare them from catching a hand on a protruding piece of metal. The first drop of blood seeps onto the list before they can smudge it away, sticking the offending finger in their mouth.

Twelve pm.

Only five houses crossed off the list. The last one had them stuck there for nearly an hour being served up tea and jam scones. The company of an old lady was not exactly enthralling, and none of her stories cast any light on the identity of the person who'd sold her the crystal vase that had turned her one house cat into eight, all prowling about, leaving cat hair on every surface. That was to say to nothing of the one that had decided to jump up on the sofa to start clawing at the list sat beside them, as if it were a new toy.

Twelve twenty pm.

The next house looks quiet. Knocking on the door receives no response. Then there's a bark and a growl. It's only at the last moment they notice the side gate is ajar, and the louder growling is coming towards it. The enormous head pokes around the gate and barks viciously just as they turn and run.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! It's right on their heels as they duck around the corner, slipping on a patch of wet nature strip. The dog leaps over the prone body and a hand goes up to fend off the snarling beast. The list is still in hand and now it's all that's swatting away the sharp teeth and spittle. Regrettably, it's the hard kick in the side that sends the creature whelping back down the street, living to fight another day, it's home dutifully defended.

There's a groan of relief. 'I don't get paid enough for this.'

It feels good just lying there, catching their breath. Then the sky opens up. Not just a few drops, but a torrential downpour. Argh! Wretched Welsh weather! The grass underneath quickly turns to mud and running for the SUV is lacking in dignity, but right now who cares?

One pm.

Outside it's still raining cats and dogs. The car hasn't moved, nor its passenger, happy to simply sit and sulk for a while in wet clothing. The scones and piping hot tea from earlier have become a distant memory. In the glove compartment there's half a block of chocolate. It's leftover from the last time the team had to coax Myfanwy out of a tight spot she'd gotten stuck in on one of her nightly adventures. Breaking off a piece, it tastes like the best thing ever, improving their mood somewhat. Another piece, and another disappears. Oh well, they can always replace it.

A text comes through from Jack. It's a request for an update, and a poorly timed joke about them being a bloodhound for the day. In their current mood, it doesn't warrant more than a terse reply, bordering on rude. Soon the entire half block of chocolate is gone without the least amount of guilt. The rest of them will be cooped up nice and warm back at the hub, filing reports and probably larking about. It's hardly fair.

Two ten pm.

The rain finally eases and time to start pounding the pavements again. The sun breaks out from behind the clouds, and apart from the wet ground, you wouldn't even know it had been raining. Inspecting the list, there's still another eighteen addresses. This really was a two man job at least. There's no way of getting through them all, but another five or six should be doable. With enough dogged determination, you could do most anything.

Five thirty pm.

Finally some headway. One man has a fraudulent invoice for the electric fry pan, with an address that could provide a new lead, and another woman admits she also bought a kettle from them. The "microwave" had already been taken by the police, but the kettle was still in a box in the cupboard under the stairs. Some probing questions garner further details, and a vague description of the man who delivered the items. Some investigative leads brighten their spirits, and the kettle is now safely ensconced in the back of the car. Feeling good about the progress being made, there seems to be time for just one more house. Then they can go back to the hub and start pulling apart the kettle to find out what it really is. It's one of the perks of the job, getting to discover cool new alien tech.

Halfway to Cathays, there's another message from Jack. Minor rift alert. Would they mind checking it out? We're stuck dealing with a rogue swarm of Nestlevites that escaped the containment unit and are taking over the hub.

Sure, not as if I have anything else to do, although secretly glad not to be there. No doubt it was chaos, trying to get the little critters back under control. They have sharp little wings and noses, so hopefully no one needs serious patching up once they managed to net the things.

Six thirty pm.

On the run. Again. Just a minor rift alert, Jack says. I'll take Nestlevites over a blowfish any day. Judging by the size, it's only a teenager, but it's running like the clappers, and not about to be caught, throwing garbage bins down across the path, trying to trip them up. In fact, it's so busy hauling down the last wheelie bin across the street, that when it turns to keep running, it doesn't see the car that comes flying around the side street, slamming straight into it. It careens up and over the windscreen, tumbling down on the other side as the sound of brakes squeal on the damp road.

The windscreen is smashed, and the driver shaken, but it's the blowfish that needs worrying about. It's top fin is snapped over on its side, and there's blood everywhere, thick and brown like mucous. As nasty as they are, it's clear that the blowfish is in a lot of pain, and undeserving of such a brutal accident. Pulling it up to rest in their lap, it growls in agony, blood seeping everywhere. No medical degree is necessary. It's going to die, and there's absolutely nothing they can do.

Seven pm.

The first police car lights are flashing down the street. A neighbour made the call, and has been consoling the driver. The blowfish is lying on the road, dead. A jacket is draped over its upper torso, hiding the face until they can get the SUV close enough to load it inside. There's also bottles of retcon-laced water in the car; doled out to the driver who is probably too shocked to remember the face of the person they hit, but it will at least take the edge off the trauma. Flashing some Torchwood credentials at the officers on site, they let the body go. There's no point sticking around for the dog and on pony show that the police will put on.

Eight fifteen pm.

The hub is quiet. The body is dragged with some difficulty down into their morgue until tomorrow when it can be dealt with properly. An autopsy won't be necessary. Covered in foul smelling blood, like rotting fish guts, a shower is definitely in order.

Stripping off clothes, the sound of crumpling paper can be heard. Cringing in anticipation, the list is slowly extracted from the pocket. It's in a horrific state, and a shower won't help its cause like it will its owner. It's all they can do to drop it back on Jack's desk and hope for the best. After today, no one would begrudge them that.

Nine thirty pm.

Sitting huddled in the bath, knees pulled up to his chest, soaking off the worst of the stench and the damp, he can barely look him in the eye, when he sees Jack standing in the doorway, holding up the remnants of the list. He doesn't seem mad; more disappointed.

Once Ianto finally manages to tell him about his whole day from start to finish, Jack tosses the list over his shoulder and let's it drop wherever it lands.

'I'll copy out the remaining addresses and return it to DI Swanson personally,' he promises. 'I'll take the rap for it.'

Jack strips off his clothes and steps into the bath with him, taking a soapy flannel to Ianto's body. Blowfish takes a decent scrubbing to get rid of the smell. Jack idly looks forward to having to spend a good two hours soaking in the steaming hot water, rubbing down every inch of skin several times over.

'I think you've been though enough for today,' Jack says, kissing his shoulder after the washcloth passes over it. 'Besides, her bark is worse than her bite, and I don't think she'd believe it was you anyway.'


End file.
